


Narcissist

by TheAlphaFox



Series: Monologues Of 221B [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Boredom, For a Friend, Grumpy Sherlock, I Believe in Sherlock Holmes, Internal Monologue, Mentioned Mrs Hudson, Moriarty Is 'Dead', Narcissism, POV Sherlock Holmes, Self-Pity, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock's Mind Palace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 13:23:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6053161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAlphaFox/pseuds/TheAlphaFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My name is Sherlock Holmes. </p><p>And I need nobody.</p><p>But, somehow, they need me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Narcissist

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Нарцисс](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7297963) by [VassaR](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VassaR/pseuds/VassaR)



> For Charlotte. 
> 
> I love you to the moon and back, my beautiful Bear. Thanks for never giving up on me xxx

"Vain".  
"Arsehole."  
"Loves himself."

I study the sharp angles of my legs, as the sunlight streams into the flat and dapples my trousers. Even now, tucked up into my armchair, making myself an impossible shape, I am refusing to conform. What do I care about their narrow minds? 

I am bored. So very, very bored. I don't want drugs- it's not worth the aggravation from my ridiculous brother, regardless of whether I care for his opinions. I don't want Lestrade to call me with another murder, just because he is incompetent. Besides, that would involve seeing Anderson, and that is to be avoided at all costs.

The mirror above the fireplace reflects back the bullet-holes in the wall, the mess of trinkets and artefact remnants on my bookshelves. I have neither the time not the inclination to tidy this flat.

The steam from my neglected teacup climbs steadily towards the ceiling. Some of the swirls look like the elegantly curved sound holes in my Stradivarius, others look like the round edge of a magnifying glass. The deerstalker is waiting on the hall coat stand downstairs, as if beckoning me. Come, be Sherlock Holmes. Be the version of you that the public demands. 

Even now, I cannot escape that image. How absurd.

Although... a small and secret part of me- I certainly shan't be telling John- does enjoy all of this. The notoriety, the speed at which people will bow to my judgement. It makes it so much easier than trying to explain myself. Nobody ever understands.

No matter. If they cannot see my gifts, it is they who will suffer. Who will solve their murders for them? What will Scotland Yard do when I tire of their scurrying insubordinates and retreat to my mind palace? I have enough menial experiment work stashed in the fridge to keep me going for weeks. I could just stay here. Now that Moriarty is dead, now that John has Mary, I have no need of the outside world.

But the outside world has need of me.

I hear a car below my window, rumbling and then pausing as if waiting for someone to cross the street. Taking a sharp breath, I leap up from my chair and navigate the piles of various case-related material to look down at the front door. 

A tall woman walks up the steps and raises her left hand- not her dominant, though, interesting- to the door knocker. Her dark brown hair flows to just below her shoulders in loose curls, her green eyes very wide and nervous looking. Heterochromia. There's a hint of orange about her pupil that I can just make out from here. Interesting. She is perhaps 25, not much more or less.

An engineer, judging by her posture and the slight indentations on her right hand, consistent with operating several complex machines. But why is she here, Sherlock? Will you take her case?

It takes me a brief moment, nothing more. She is here to ask me to recover a manuscript for a close friend, a life's work of a novel. The young author is so distraught that she cannot leave her house, so has asked this woman to meet me and ask for my help. 

So, it seems that I finally have a case, I think with no small amount relief. I don't need the doorbell ringing, or Mrs Hudson's gentle tones of "It's alright, my dear, no trouble at all. SHERLOCK! YOU'VE GOT ANOTHER ONE!"

It's all rather elementary, really.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, cubs! Please leave a comment if you enjoyed this, I'd be really interested to know what you thought! 
> 
> I hope you liked this, and have a good day xxx


End file.
